TALE OF THE FOREST.
I know of a spot in our Western woods,
Where the deep shadows lie on the rushing floods,
Where the foam and the mist are as white as snow
On the dark brown sides of the rocks below;
Where yet deeper down I can see the gleam
Of the sunshine broad on the glimmering stream,
Through arches of green, twined of leaves that shiver
To the breath of the wind and the sound of the river.
There are violets growing there all the year,
When the leaves of the forest are dry and sere,
Fed by the dew that distils all the day
From the moist green leaves or the river's spray;
And a bird with a soft, wild, silvery note,
And a sound of grief in its little throat,
Has chosen the shade for its lonely song—
To that bird and to me does the place belong.
There, when the summer was fairest, I made
At the falling of twilight, a grave—and laid
A heart that was weary forever to rest—
The heart that had broke in my beating breast;
Wrapt and shrouded in mist, and covered in gloom,
Mourned by the bird and the drooping plume
Of the evergreen trees that bend o'er the flood,
I left it to sleep in that wild solitude.
When the summer hung light on the maple boughs,
And the birds in the greenwood were singing their vows,
Came I one sunset and sat where the gleam
Glanced from the young leaves and fell on the stream;
And sitting I heard what my spirit hears yet,
And the heart that I buried can never forget;
Holy and solemn the vow that was made—
Ere summer had ripened the vow was betrayed.
